Trading Addictions
by JessicaJ
Summary: Cullen Rutherford had never considered he could simply stand still. That something would anchor him. That he might forgive himself for his past, and be ready to welcome the future. Cullen x Trevelyan
1. Running

_Running_

Cullen rose early that morning, the pre-dawn chill clinging tightly to the stone ramparts of Skyhold. He _always_ rose early, largely due to living the life of a military man. Mornings were times for drills, preparation, briefings. Hours lost here could be crucial to the success or failure of any given initiative.

Shaking himself free of his just-awoken mind fog and pushing the nightmares to the recesses of his conscience to be recollected later at cost, he bid his weary self out of bed, dressing hurriedly to trap what warmth his body still held with his layers of cloth, leather, metal and fur. The snow had been so bad recently he had to abandon the use of his quarters in the tower overlooking the portcullis – the snow had piled in through the yet-to-be-repaired breach in the stone coving overhead. The barracks were warm, though offered little privacy.

Since he had ceased taking Lyrium, troubled dreams turned to vivid technicolour nightmares. They woke him constantly, drenched in cool sweat and crying out for… Maker knew what. There was never an answer. Never a deliverance from reliving the horrors of his past. He sighed heavily as he buckled his sword hilt around his waist. That would be the least of his worries if…

No. He couldn't think of it.

Stiff limbs carried him across empty courtyards, the silent herb garden, and barren ramparts, save for the odd sentry patrolling here and there. The startling landscape of the Frostbacks, kissed by the impending dawn glow, never failed to stagger him. Breath rising in a mist before him, he takes in the crisp air, the sharp cold burning his lungs a little. The various sky-scraping peaks, pure white with virgin snowfall, stood silent and stark against the gold-edged ink blackened skies of the hour.

The hold is gloriously silent. No swords clashing at this hour. No bickering democrats from Orlais. No armour clanking, no chattering merchants, no-

He frowns.

The door to his working quarters stood open, held wide by a hastily improvised stop – a stack of books. Frowning, he draws closer, eyes narrowed, the one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword tightening its grip with a creak of leather.

A swift appraisal finds nothing out of place, aside from another door to the west being propped open in a similar manner.

He spots a sentry just outside on the ramparts – surely, they would have spotted something amiss? He feels ire bubbling beneath the surface of his usually restrained temperament. If he ended up yelling at a soldier at this hour, it would be some sort of record for him.

Before he had the chance to make a scathing passive-aggressive query of the sentry however, he hears rapid footfalls from up ahead. His body tenses. Running was never a good sign, not in his experience. He squints out from his vantage point on the walls, ignoring the sentry, who seemed grateful of any excuse to ignore his commander in response.

Suddenly a figure comes into view, running at a sprint along the ramparts, head bowed in concentration. Cullen follows their journey along and out of sight for a moment as no doubt they ran through the battlements and watch towers, only to reappear before him on the stretch of wall before his quarters. Whoever this was, they were clearly responsible for propping open his doors to allow them to run unhindered.

He expected that they would come in for a shock when running into him – possibly literally if they did not glance up from their manoeuvres – and hearing a piece of his mind. Who he did not expect to encounter, however was…

"Inquisitor!" He exclaims, recognising her despite her current state of dishabille.

Inquisitor Ysabel Trevelyan practically skids to a halt before him, chest heaving with heavily laboured breathing. She raised one index finger to indicate she needed a moment to recover, hunching over, gasping and spluttering for air.

Cullen, one eyebrow threatening to rise, catches the eye of the sentry and gives a side-jerk of the head. The young man nods curtly before scuttling away into the dark.

"Phew! Comm-ander, I didn't-expect to see- you at this—hour." She gasps, standing upright and stretching out her arms with a pop of joints.

He notes that her usual casual attire has been moderated to allow her morning's activities. No doublet jacket to be seen, in favour of her thin undershirt. A faint blush comes unbidden to his face at the realisation that her sweat renders the fabric see through. Curious eyes find, in the moments she is still distracted, the musculature of her arms, the slender curve of her neck, revealed from hiding by a ribbon keeping ebony hair at bay.

"What, by the Maker, are you doing out here?" he enquires, noting that goosebumps has risen along her skin. In the light of a flaming torch he counts freckles along the back of her arms, notes that they dust across her breast bone. "I was about to give that sentry a piece of my mind for not noticing my office had been apparently infiltrated. It seems you were the culprit."

"So you were going to yell at me? Your superior officer no less!" She succeeds in embarrassing him, though her comment was good-natured. "To answer your first question, one of those experts the council recruited recommended some training to me. It's rather unbecoming isn't it? Hence the early hour."

She gestures to herself with a mock expression of disgust twisting her features. "Josie doesn't know though, so… might we keep this between us? She'll kill me for looking so… undignified." She stands straight, irises dancing.

The way she refers to Josephine as _Josie_ snags at him, and he cannot think why for a moment.

"Alright Inquisitor. But won't you come inside? I could light the braziers?"

She nods, following him into his office, carefully collecting the stack of books she had used to prop open the door and returning them to their previous location piled up on top of a barrel. Clearly tomes he used a lot, he thought with an eyeroll. Wait, wasn't that a copy of _Hard in Hightown_?

The doors closed and the brazier lit, they gravitate toward it to ward off the chill.

"I'm sorry about your room being so cold. I thought I might instruct the servants to light your fires for you once I had done. I didn't realise you would be awake at such an hour." She tugs the ribbon in her hair free, black locks tumbling over her shoulders and spilling half way down her back. He is almost sorry for the loss of the sight of her elegant throat.

"There is much to do and I… I haven't been sleeping too well." His hand finds the back of his neck, as it often did when he was around her.

Her gentle grey eyes fix on him, brows creased with concern. "Is there anything I can do, Cullen? You should really try to get some rest." She couldn't help but dwell on the warnings he had given, about the risks of halting taking Lyrium.

He had recently informed her of his decision to cease taking lyrium upon joining the Inquisition. She had to admire him for that, though she worried for him privately.

"Ah… No, thank you, Inquisitor. I can only endure it. It was my choice after all."

"My name is Ysabel, Cullen. I think we have been through enough together by now, that you've earned the right to call me that."

 _Josie_. Because they were friends. Because she had affection for the Antivan Diplomat. Because when Cassandra wasn't looking, she might wink, or stick out her tongue at her. Because they spent time together, giggling over various Diplomat's actions at court, or whatever it was Sera had gotten up to now.

"Alright, Inq- um, Ysabel." He must have looked comically stuffy, because she laughed, nose crinkling in mirth, before stepping in a little closer, placing her mark-free palm at his elbow.

"Or, Bella, if you'd prefer." As if his preferences were anything to do with it. God, he was blushing again, wasn't he?

"I'll keep to Inquisitor if I can. Don't want to slip up before some Orlesian Courtier and lose The Game in one fell swoop." He rolled his eyes, not noticing the hurriedly assembled expression of his Leader before him, recovering from a flash of discomfort.

"I'll leave you to your duties, then."

"Inquisitor."

-0-

 _Splinters_

He had practically hurled the accursed box with all his might at the wall. His inner voice offered a slow, congratulatory applause at his choice of timing: right as the Lady Inquisitor walked through the door, the wooden box and its contents making contact with stone, the wood splintering into pieces.

His shout of rage suddenly seemed less impactful, followed by a hurried, desperate apology.

True to Lady Trevelyan's way, however, all was forgiven with a light-hearted comment about his poor aim, before she got down to the true reasoning for his anger.

He felt like he was failing the Inquisition- Cassandra had hinted as much, in a recent conversation where they had shared concern for the Commander. The Lyrium withdrawal was taking its toll; he was barely sleeping, food had lost all appeal, he had become agitated and unfocused… yet Seeker Pentaghast did nothing to interject, to question his judgement.

"If Cassandra is unconcerned, I have no reason to worry, Cullen."

His fist makes a resounding thud, colliding with his desk. "I gave _everything_ to the Templars. When I left, I promised myself I would give the Inquisition more. I cannot give it anything less."

"Nobody said this would be an easy journey for you, Cullen. You did this for a reason – remember those reasons now. Don't waver. You can't give up!"

"I should be taking it, I should-" He'd started to pace behind his desk, his palm returning slick with sweat as he rubbed the back of his neck habitually.

The Inquisitior's eyebrows creased. "Cullen, stop. You told me you wanted to cease taking it, to remove the leash around your neck. I support that decision. Nothing else needs to be said on the matter. Unless… if you need to discuss anything else, you know where I am."

He scowled after her as she stalked from his office, frown deepening as he couldn't help noticing, even in his haze of irritation toward her and craving Lyrium, the gentle sashay of her hips.

 _I am a Blackwall girl through and through. But on my second playthrough I thought, that Cullen guy seems pretty hot, maybe I'll give it a shot. And boy was it worth it. I think I may even change allegiance for good._

 _In the late-night hours trying to fall asleep I had a clear thread through a series of different narratives that form their romance. As one often does after sleeping, I struggled to reassemble that narrative, so clear the night before._

 _So, this isn't perfectly true to the game narrative, as I was literally playing at the same time and uncovering new interactions. I jumbled things about to suit the story I wanted to tell, so don't tell me its inaccurate because I know!_

 _Also, I found so many BAD Cullen x Inquisitor stories. What a waste. My Inquisitor was a human female warrior, not an elven mage. Maybe not as forbidden a love and thus not an enticing, but I felt I needed to tell my story. So here it is! Please leave a review!_


	2. Reading Material

_Reading material_

 _I want to give you everything you deserve, and relieve you of those pressures that you take/_

Irritable didn't cut it.

Cassandra had thrown more than one knowing quirked-brow in his direction in response to his more ill-tempered than usual barking at his recruits. To the fade with them all, he thought, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to alleviate his cranium-splitting migraine.

He longed to feel the slow ebb of relief course through his veins, the cold power settle in his gut as the Lyrium took hold. He needed to feel that sense of purpose again, the illusion of total control. May if he took just a little…

An errant arrow, blunted for training, but still dangerous nonetheless, embedded itself in the fencing post not inches from his thigh. The recruit who had misfired was turning rather pale, and not without reason – he had seen his commander lose it before at some of his comrades, but never had he had a cause before this moment to direct it at him.

Sure enough, Cullen unloaded a barrage of demeaning and disparaging comments about aim and being the son of a half-wit farmer, feeling his throat burning from the raw ire that spewed from his lips. He felt a dull ache in his fist, noting that he had punched the nearest wall in frustration.

How, in all Thedas, was he expected to provide the Inquisitor with battle-ready troops to face the biggest threat the Kingdoms had ever seen, if they couldn't tell friend from foe when firing arrows?

How in the name of the Maker were they expected to face Red Templars, Corrupted Grey Wardens, demons and whatever else the Void threw at them, if his troops didn't train seriously?

How was he supposed to give the Inquisition his whole self, if piece by miniscule piece was sapping away as each day went by, all because he wanted to sever himself from the Templars? No, not the Templars, but what had taken place on their account. What he hadn't been able to forget, in every waking moment since.

He was fighting against the calling of his blood, as the night stole what resolve and energy he needed to get through each day, replaying each of his failures, weaknesses, worst memories…

 _He should be taking it!_

"You're dismissed for the day," He heard himself say, hoarse and defeated. "You'd better be ready for training tomorrow, or I'll duel you into the dirt myself."

He trudged from the training yard, unaware of Cassandra's worried eyes fixed on his retreating back.

As the sun sank over the mountains, setting the snowy peaks alight, a tap at his door brought him from his trance staring out the window.

"Not now!" He called out, rubbing his thumb along the threatening-to-become-permanent crease in his brow.

"Sorry Sir, I have a message for you from the Inquisitor. She requests your presence for a meeting immediately."

-0-

"You sent a messenger for me, Inquisitor?" He lingers at the top of the stairs, realising that this is the first time he has been inside the Inquisitor's chambers. They are pleasingly humble, for someone of noble origins, and he notes jealously the intact ceiling and beautiful glass windows leading to a balcony.

"Ah, Commander Cullen, thank you for coming. Won't you take a seat? I'll be with you momentarily." She is installed behind her desk, a quill furiously scribbling across parchment with a rather satisfying staccato of scratches. A fire pops merrily in her fireplace, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.

The messenger who had brought him here hovered by her desk, doing an excellent job of blending into the stonework. A young female elf, with dark brown hair tugged back at the base of her neck. He seen her many times before, dashing to and from across the keep. He was ashamed to say he couldn't recall her name.

He takes the aforementioned seat somewhat awkwardly. The upholstery looks rather too expensive.

Signing her final message with a flourish, her inkpot closes with a pleasing _pink_ sound. "Elsa, would you be so kind to take these messages to Lilliana as your final duty of the evening. Thank you for being so insistent with the Commander, especially in the face of his recent ill temper." The lilt of teasing in her tone was punctuated by the tinkle of coins. "For your trouble- just don't spend it _all_ in the Tavern, will you?"

He watched the young girl smile brightly at the Inquisitor, before hurrying dutifully from the room. Ysabel waits, leaning against the edge of her desk, ear cocked for the closing click of her door. When it sounds, she gives a satisfied sigh, smiling brightly at him.

"Inquisitor…?"

"Now, first thing's first. I've invited you to my private chambers and we are, as of now, off duty. Please – at least call me Ysabel." She pivots at the waist to reach for a demijohn stood waiting at the edge of her desk, pouring the contents into two simple earthenware vessels. She moves across the room to join him seated amongst the cushions on the padded bench, handing him a glass of what turned out to be wine – rather excellent wine.

"Marvellous, isn't it?" She remarks, turning the cup in her palm. "I persuaded our dear Dorian to grant me some of his Tevinter stash – don't worry, you can't turn into a blood mage just by drinking wine, I assure you."

"Did you just invite me here to drink wine?" He had intended to sound teasing ( _Maker's breath_ , who knew flirting could be dangerous), but he knew he had expressed bitterness and disgruntlement instead. He tugs free his gloves with his teeth, to better massage at his temple.

"Actually, yes. Is that… a problem?" A gentle furrow forms on her forehead and he regrets himself even more. She had enough worries without his own, trivial by comparison.

"Oh, Maker's breath… I'm beginning to tire of myself of late. Inqui- Ysabel… I apologise. That came out all wrong."

"I thought you could use a drink. With a friendly face." She tucks her knees up alongside her, wine balanced in one hand, her cheek resting in the other, fingers buried in her ebony hair. "That is… if I am such to you. I wasn't proud of how we left things the last time we spoke."

He doesn't quite know what to say to _that_ , though she seemed content enough with the silence he left, her gaze skimming the ceiling as if in thought. He takes a mouthful of wine, allowing the palette of florals and spices to ensnare his senses. Not that a man from such humble beginnings could detect them all to the same alarming accuracy the aforementioned _dear Dorian_ could.

"I sent the Templar specialist away, did you hear? I felt if I chose to be trained by him, after everything we have discussed it would be… hypocritical of me. I have no wish to take Lyrium, especially not now."

He _hadn't_ heard about that, actually. He silently reminded himself to drop a scathing _thank you for nothing_ in during his next briefing with Josephine. Not least because he had made an ass of himself for loudly criticising the decision at the War table (and also privately to Cassandra). Not to mention the silent grudging resentment that had been building within him for weeks.

"That's… I appreciate it. I would not have spoken so if I felt it would have truly benefited you… A-and the Inquisition. I… Thank you, Inquisitor."

She reaches across the short space between them to place a cool fingertip on his forehead, poking him gently with each word. "Ysabel. Say it. Ys-a-bel. I want to hear you say my name, Cullen Stanton Rutherford."

A distant voice in the recess of his mind supplies a rather unhelpful dirty joke – had he truly been spending too much time with Dorian? "I think it might take more wine for the habit to break, Inquisitor." With a quirk of his lip that distorts his scar slightly, he tips his empty cup.

Somewhere after the second refill of the demijohn (he'd lost count of the refills of his cup by then) he notices she seems distracted by something, worrying her bottom lip as she did in the War Council, when a particular moral quandary was being mulled around in her mind.

"Is something troubling you, Inquisitor?"

Her shy smile catches him of guard. " _You're_ troubling me, Cullen. Since we met last and we discussed your withdrawal symptoms I… I checked out every book in that damn library about Templars." She rises, suddenly agitated, pacing around the small table where the detritus of their drinking lays abandoned. "I consumed everything I could on Lyrium, Templars, history of The Circle… I read too many research tomes about the effects of Lyrium withdrawal I… I almost scared myself enough to march right over to your office with a vial of the stuff to beg you to take it myself."

Sure enough, with a quick appraisal of her desk area, he notes carefully stacked up tomes, some with reference sheets sticking out at various points, loops of her handwriting visible as she made notes here and there.

"I learned that if trauma was suffered during a previous period of Lyrium withdrawal, then those memories return to the forefront of your consciousness. I requested a detailed copy of your dossier, to try and learn more, but… I didn't read it. It felt unfair to treat you like that, like a… like a target I needed to know about to exploit weakness. I wanted to give you an opportunity to share it with me, if you trusted me enough."

He opens his mouth, and then closes it. She had spent time learning how she might be able to help him. She wanted to know more about him. He was equally touched and filled with revulsion at the notion.

"I… I have done things I am not proud of in my life. In service to the Templars, and, so I thought, to the Maker himself. I did not live up to the ideal of the Templar I wanted to be." He sighed heavily, shoulder plates heaving. Standing, he wanders toward the desk, picking up and turning in his hands a volume about famous Templars of the ages. "I left the Templars with bloodied hands and I…"

"We've _all_ done things we're not proud of, Cullen. You should not allow your mistakes to define you." She follows, leaning on the desk beside him, placing her palm on the book's cover, steadying its movement in his hands. With nothing to busy himself with, he is forced to look into her face. Such compassion, desire to understand, to forgive…

"You don't understand! I knew what had to be done! I knew that what was going on in the Circle at Kirkwall was destined to end in disaster, in bloodshed! But I did _nothing_!" He takes the volume and hurls it at the wall above the stairwell. The binding splits apart on contact, the pages drifting about like oversized confetti. The gentle _swish swish_ as they fall is a blanket of sound over his heaving breaths.

"What happened to me at the Circle in Ferelden…" He continues, his body closing up to her as the memories return to haunt him anew. "I was tortured. They tried to break my mind and… all my compassion turned to hate. I became a person you would not recognise." Cullen's voice had taken on a soft quality, visibly fighting to form the right words to articulate what must have been extremely painful for him to recall.

He runs a hand across his visage, pinching at his throat in agitation.

"Cullen…" She is closer, stepping into his guard before he can protest, before he can consider all the reasons why he shouldn't be. "You are a good man. An honourable man."

"What about you? _You're_ the Herald of Andraste, The Maker's Chosen. Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick. _You_ don't get to make mistakes." He was giving her signals, loud and clear. He was one such mistake she could make, if she continued to place her trust in him like this. He wasn't worthy of the Inquisition.

"You want to know the real kicker? The _real_ reason I was at the Conclave?" She is toying with the ruby fabric draping his chest plate, agitated.

He feels cold settle in his stomach. Where was she going with this?

"I had been sent to the Conclave by my family. I was a third-born wayward daughter. I had been escorted by a small retinue to be pledged to become a member of the Chantry, and if they wouldn't have me, the Wardens."

"The _Wardens_? Maker's Breath, how… wayward were you, exactly?"

She laughed, fingers twitching upward, into the fur of his mantle. "Wayward enough. I was trained in swordplay from a young age- indulged by my father. He and I were close, until his death. Up until then, I was trained as a nobly boy might be, if not more. I showed promise, though to what end I wanted to take my skills, only the Maker knew. When my father passed, my Mother put a stop to my training, although she could do little to prevent me from training with the local Chantry Templars.

"Not only that- I was a black sheep in the family in more ways than one- I refused suitors, the very idea of marrying into another noble family. Instead, I favoured… well… I had a brief _relationship_ with a young Templar named Mickhael, let's put it that way. He was sent away not long after that. I heard that he died, a few years ago."

"I'm… I'm sorry."

She half shrugged. "It was just a brief liaison, nothing more, but enough to mar my reputation to make me unmarriageable. At the Conclave… I… I had planned to run; to give the small company of guards that I came with the slip, and become… a nobody. I'd even chosen a name for myself – Bella Compton."

The gravity of what she had told him settled upon him. "Not quite what you had planned, was it? Walking into the Fade, becoming the Herald of Andraste… and then, leader of the Inquisition. You wanted to disappear, but instead you-"

"- became the most visible person in all of Thedas."

They fell into silence.

His gaze settled on the crown of her head, his height acting as a disadvantage to reading her expression. Inch by glorious inch, restless fingers had crept beneath the edge of his fur mantle, restless thumbs rubbing soothing circles at the nape of his neck. The sensation was exquisite, calm settling in his core, knots of tension that had been tied up for months threatening to come loose. He braces himself against the edge of the desk, hands either side of her hips.

"I'm sorry, Bella." He broke their companionable silence, punctuating his utterance with a deep sigh.

"You don't owe me an apology, Cullen." She tilts her face upwards toward him, delighting privately in the way his pupils constricted as he focussed on her face, in how his irises were molten in the firelight. Her palms drag upward, to cup his jaw. "I'm here to talk if you need. _Whenever_ you need."

-0-

 _His Worst Nightmare_

It had been Josephine who came break the news.

Her usual ubiquitous papers and quill were gone, drawing his attention to her trembling hands, how she fiddles with the cuffs of her ruffled blouse.

"What is it?" He can't help but feel nervous for what she had come to say. The hour alone did not bode well for her tidings. It was late, his candle almost burned to the base. He had been about to retire to bed, was part way through removing his armour.

"The Inquisitor's party have returned to camp earlier than we expected. They… She is…" the ambassador's voice breaks. "Her body is in the Chapel."

He passed like a ghost through corridors, stumbling through doors with his shoulder braced against the wood, unable to accept the truth. Not until it was in front of him. Tangible, undeniable. Real.

Her eyes, usually glimmering with life and energy are like still pools of water in the moonlight. He tugs off her gloves, finding her fingers cold and stiff. Her blood coats his fingertips as they tremble at her lips.

He couldn't save her. He hadn't been there this time to carry her.

He wakes with a gasp, fighting for air over the sobs that wrack his body. Sweat coats his skin, drenching his nightshirt. The cold mountain air buffeting in through the gaps in the stone does little to offer him reprieve.

Throwing his legs over the side of the bed, Cullen shoves on his boots before slipping down the ladder, almost stumbling in his haste to reach the bottom. The moon is high in the courtyard, revealing it devoid of its usual hustle and bustle. His reality so far is echoing that of his recent nightmare and rising panic threatens to bubble to the surface.

He has opened the door to her chambers and crested the stairs, before he can think of how foolish his reasoning was for being there at this ungodly hour. He had a bad dream, and he felt the need to sneak into a woman's chamber as she slept?

The fire has all but burned to embers, giving him little light by which to navigate the room. The frame of her bed and the drapes around it are but shadows. A shaft of moonlight spills across her bedspread, blessedly guiding him to his destination and proving that indeed she lay within.

Bella lay sleeping, shoulders softly rising and falling as she breathed, hair the colour of ink spilled across her pillow.

His palpable relief terrified him in ways he didn't have the capacity to understand.

He did not sleep again that night.

 _/and as the cold comes and covers the mind, I want to know that your body is real._

 _Eaves, Timber_

-0-

 _I want to post this onto AO3 because there is some M material planned for later on. Reviews are slow to come, so maybe I'll get more feedback there?_

 _Anyhoo, if you're reading, I'd like to know your thoughts!_


	3. Withdrawals

_Withdrawals_

He got used to meeting her most mornings on the rampart following her training, as the weeks drifted by and spring settled upon the Frostbacks as much as it could at this altitude. She would run, come rain or shine, when not out on expeditions across Thedas.

When she would venture forth, It would take days for that longing to see her, sweating, panting and beautiful in the pale light of dawn, to fade away. On her return to camp, sometimes after a week or so, he would feel a strange knotting in his stomach, both looking forward to and yet dreading their first re-encounter.

Because his dreams had taken a turn since that single horrifying occurrence, a nightmare that had shocked his body into realising something.

He cared for her. The Noble, the leader of the Inquisition. The woman who argued with him bitterly about whether brute force was the right course of action at the war table; Who liked to take her tea with what had to be an unhealthy amount of sugar. Who could soundly trounce him at chess.

He cared for her, more than he cared to admit to himself.

He was nearly certain Josephine knew it, though she gave nothing much else away aside from that damn quill hovering just so above her parchment. Damn subtleties.

Sometimes he had to do like Cassandra and smash something with a sword.

One morning, sharing an impromptu breakfast with Ysabel on the battlements - thankfully she had taken to leaving a jacket nearby, to more decently clothe herself following her run- she asked him how his dreams had been of late, and he almost choked on mouthful of bread.

She couldn't have known.

His thirst for Lyrium brought nightmares that woke him in the dead of night, sweating and crying out. Yet, sometimes, his mind blessedly brought him relief, in the form of dreams that reflected his innermost desires; Desires he hadn't dared to acknowledge…

Like what that spot at the juncture of her throat and her jaw really felt like beneath twitching fingers. What her skin tasted like in the morning after she had stopped running to greet him, what her body felt like between his and that just-right rock on the battlements that he longed to take her against, his name on her lips in gasps because she couldn't breathe, because she was going to-

And then he would wake.

One particular morning dawned bright, the warmth in the stone left to grow in the absence of the mountain breeze. Clouds drifted lazily across the path of sky through his broken roof, the sun beating down into his room. It felt like today was going to be a good day. No nightmares had wakened him, nor had any stirring of his loins caused him any unrest, and he woke fresh and calm.

After washing and dressing, humming a broken tuneless song as he worked, Commander Cullen throws open the door to the ramparts, thinking he would particularly like to enjoy a moment in the sun, staring out over the valley.

His plan was disrupted however, the calm of his mind cataclysmically shattered, by what he encountered.

Ysabel had clearly been running, sweat-slickened loins steaming, shoulders heaving as she fought to regain control of the pounding in her chest and the burn in her lungs. The absence of the usual breeze clearly not ample enough to cool her, she is angled over, tips of her ebony hair brushing the stone, as she stoops to collect a bucket of water. Raising it above her head and emptying the contents over herself, the water tugs her darkened locks into a glassy sheet against her back, the white of her undershirt clinging to every curve, every muscle…

It takes a moment to realise firstly that his mouth is hanging open, and secondly that the sentry guard across from him had equally been caught unawares, and was also staring, jaw slack. Something stirs him to sentience once more, and he growls at the guard, sending him retreating to another section of wall where hopefully there wasn't a beautiful woman dousing herself in water.

"Good morning Commander," She calls out to him, seemingly oblivious, tossing the bucket aside whilst brushing water from her eyes. "Come to enjoy the view?"

"Ah… What?"

He almost chokes when she does the unthinkable; shucking her body free from her undershirt to ring it out of excess water. Her bra band barely protects her modesty, ample chest heaving within the confines of the lacing.

"I… I'll be in my office, Inquisitor." He turns on his heel quickly, trying desperately to shake the image of her glistening body out of his mind. He already knows it's too late for that, gritting his teeth as his traitorous body awakens.

Damn her.

-0-

 _In her cups_

She can't remember who suggested the damn game, and even now she can't remember what it was called. Spin-around-a-sword-and-get-dizzy? Sera would be better at naming it, though it would no doubt contain a reference to a 'butt'.

She'd agreed to join the Chargers for one drink that had quickly become several. The fire was roaring, the bard was singing, and the mood in the tavern that night was one of lightness and joy. It was her turn to participate in the silly game, the object of which she wasn't sure. By the sounds of it everyone ended up having to drink more, _and_ you looked damn stupid in the process. Maybe one she would regret come morning.

She presses her forehead to the pommel of her sword, placed point first in the planks beneath her feet. She feels the blood settling in her head as she is bent forward so. "Can I go now? You'd better not be looking at my backside," She threatens an upside-down Dorian, who only raises one eyebrow wickedly in her direction.

She starts to walk quick circles around her sword as she had observed the previous participants do, with the assembled group of revellers counting her down from ten. After the countdown, she stands upright, arms thrown out to steady her balance – the room was swirling and dancing, along with everyone in it. The challenge dictated that she was to walk down the straight line of white powder that had been set out before her. If she fell over, she had to buy everyone a drink. If she succeeded, she got to miss the round.

Simple.

 _Simple_ , she repeated, carefully extending her right foot, placing it down carefully, followed by her left foot. Each movement was way harder than it needed to be. It could have been due to the spinning, she thought. After a hiccough, she thought that maybe the several cups of wine had more of a play in it.

Ankles tangling, she lurched forward, at the precise moment her commander strode across her path, barely looking up to acknowledge he had walked into the middle of a company of drunken Chargers and that in fact the person he had bowled into, in her cups, was none other than the Inquisitor.

He drops the empty tankard he had been carrying and she lands solidly against his chest. He makes an _oof_ sound at the impact, an automatic steadying arm braced at her waist.

"You cannot be telling me that that was not on purpose," Dorian exclaims to Iron Bull, gesturing madly.

She assembles an innocent expression. "Why Commander… thank you for rescuing me."

He blushes, rendering his attempt to appear disapproving all the more futile. Lowering his voice, he murmurs against her ear, "Having fun, Ysabel?"

Seized by an impish, not un-Sera-like notion, she rights herself, throws an arm around Cullen's shoulder and proclaims, "Commander Cullen interfered with my game! I say it's his round, or he has to walk the line!"

A raucous cheer meets her words. Not surprisingly, the commander chose to take the hit to his pocket, rather than his dignity.

They walk outside after finishing their drinks at his invitation, yet he is silent for a time, gazing up at the heavens in the yard.

Weeks had passed since she had met him on the battlements that warm spring morning. She got the impression he was trying to put distance between them. She wanted to respect his wishes, Andraste knew, however poorly expressed they might have been. She understood him to be a creature of duty and habit; whatever spark was between them may well just remain so, until such a point that either the kindling caught fire and there was nothing either of them could do to quell the flames, or else sputter out completely.

"I… it's good to see you, Bella. I know recent events have been… very trying. You must be… Is there anything I can do?" He turns to her, his fair skin tinged silver in the moonlight. "I mean, to help? Even if it's only to talk? You've done so much for me; you've been there when I needed you… I never got the chance to thank you for that."

She can't help it when her face splits into a smile- he was doing that damn nervous tick again, gloves hand finding the back of his head, rubbing at his neck self-consciously. She needed to nudge him in the right direction, if she wanted to see where this spark of attraction might lead. The wine lubricating her thoughts and lending her courage, she felt that perhaps tonight was the right time to deliver that nudge.

"Cullen," She steps closer, makes a fist around the red fabric of his mantle and tugs, so he cannot help but stumble a little, reaching out a hand to steady himself against her. A gloved hand clutches at her hip. "firstly, you're very welcome. And secondly, there _is_ something you can do."

"O-oh?" Wait, was she going to…?

"Commander!" A solider enters the yard, clutching another report. "Leliana's report. You asked for urgent delivery."

Thanking the maker that Ysabel had the good grace to take a respectful step backward, and that the damned solider was too intent on staring at the report to notice what was going on around him, Cullen pinched the report in gloved fingers. "Yes, thank you. Dismissed."

He'd always hated awkward silences.

"I should let you get back to work." the moment was severed cruelly, yet he isn't ready to let it go.

"No- wait!"

Her eyebrows rise in surprise, disappearing beneath those strands of hair that always fell into her eyes. She is worrying her bottom lip, a habit he has noticed is largely automatic when she is nervous. An emotion that she rarely allows to frequent her visage.

Maker, she was beautiful.

"Bella…" Grey eyes find his; warm, hopeful, longing.

His kiss surprises even him with how hungry it is. Their lips crush together, almost painfully - as if thought that kissing her quickly would help to overcome his inhibitions. When the surprise fades, her mouth becomes pliant, insistent hands gripping his mantle tight enough for him to know he can't step away. He already knows that he won't. But he probably should…

A breath passes between them as they break contact. He takes a moment to collect himself, to let what he had just done sink in. He had kissed the Inquisitor! For the love of-

"I'm sorry I shouldn't have done that." He titters nervously, rubbing at the back of his neck. In doing so, he released the grip he didn't know he'd had on her waist. "You're… You're the Inquisitor, we're at war and I'm- this shouldn't be happening, we shouldn't be- Ow!"

She'd slapped him. Not hard, enough to rattle his jaw a little and give him pause. Anger and hurt bubble to the surface, her brows knitted, arms crossed over her chest. "Don't _Inquisitor_ me, Cullen. Not after kissing me like that. I don't want to play games with you, I want- If you're not interested, that's alright. But don't lead me to believe you care for me, and then put up the barricades."

She storms from the yard, retreating to nurse her pride, leaving him dumbfounded and with a sore cheek in the moonlight.

-0-

 _Home_

During the daylight hours, they discuss strategy, mission reports, and scouting parties, various incoming dignitaries and their military attaches. They examine maps, discuss the uses for seized or otherwise acquired resources, and inspect troop training drills. When evening descends, she embarks on other engagements, whether in the service of the Inquisition or for her own enjoyment with her comrades. They do not cross paths often, not even in the mornings- she must have changed her running routes- and he regrets it bitterly.

He tries telling himself that it's for the best – that he should concentrate on his duties, on shaking free the chains of Lyrium. But he can't.

In his office one evening, as his candle burns low, sputtering in the depths of the pool of wax, he received a visit from one of the Inquisition's less conventional members. He was cursing, searching for a replacement candle in the depths of his desk before he was plunged into darkness. Then a humming from outside his door snags on his attention. The tune is familiar, something his sister used to sing to him when he was very small.

His chest aches for home.

"Is that you Cole?" He shouts, rubbing at his forehead in agitation. The spectral creature, or whatever he was, had visited him before, though he couldn't quite recall the details of the conversation they had had…

Then the moment is gone. He forgets about Cole, though he reaches for parchment and a quill, and writes a long overdue letter to Mia. It had been too long.

-0-

 _Strategy_

In the War Room the following day, he is struck with sudden inspiration.

"Josephine, may I have a word?" He catches up to the diplomat as she is about to stalk out of the room. The Inquisitor, Cassandra and Leliana had exited ahead of them. A warm smile graces the Antivan's visage, aligning her step to his as they make the short journey down the hall to her office.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Commander?" She asks as they take a seat before the fire.

"I was thinking over something last night – I'm trying to think of new ways to engage the recruits, apart from shouting at them, and- well, do you recall that Compte? The one who's party you went to in Orlais? He rather spectacularly denounced us at one point, I seem to recall – maybe we'd become friendly with an enemy of his? How on earth did you bring him back around?"

Josephine considered him with a levelled stare, before responding. "Well, we rather irritated the dear Compte because a message was sent to him in error, giving him a rather frosty response to his warm letter of support. To smooth things over, I threw a soiree, careful to emulate his own environment, provide his favourite things… Though I fail to see how you might apply this to training, Commander."

He waved a dismissive gloved hand. "It seemed relevant at the time. Maybe I am confusing my stories from the tavern; I will think on it in the meantime. Thank you, Ambassador." He rises with a clank of armour, and is halfway across the room, turning the information she had given him around in his mind.

Josephine sinks back into the armchair, thoughtful, crossing her right leg over the left. "You're hopeless at bluffing you know, Commander."

He half-turns, smirking, before passing out into the main hall.

-0-

 _Amends_

"Ah, Commander! What a delicious surprise, to receive a visit from you outside of your natural habitat- you do know this is a library, where books are kept don't you?"

Being from Tevinter and being a mage should have really set the man low on Cullen's list of people to associate with, yet it was near impossible to dislike Dorian Pavus. His hardened hatred for his own kind, blood magic, and his acid tongue had quickly brought the Commander around.

Cullen offered a scowl in response, instinctively tightening his hold on his sword hilt. "I know what a damn library is, Pavus. I might be a commoner, but I can read."

"Excellent news! I am rather pleased for you. Now what can I do for your fine self this afternoon?" Cullen winced at how voices echoed rather loudly in the relative quiet of the library. Above, the ravens cawed, and beneath, Solas stalked in silence.

"I was hoping you would have time for a rematch. I need something else to occupy my mind for a while."

The mage smirks, indicating that Cullen should walk out ahead of him, towards the stairs. It was a short stroll to the gardens, where the calm of the chessboard awaited them. "Something else, apart from thinking of a certain person with whom you're not in the good graces of, I presume?" He had the sense to drop his voice as they rounded the corner into the main hall.

"Hn."

Mid-way through their game, he already knows that he is going to lose. His mind is not on the board, and Dorian knows it. "You're no fun when you're not fighting back, Commander. Where has that hot-blooded blonde warrior gone to, I wonder?"

"I'm afraid I'm flagging of late. The Lyrium withdrawals come and go in their severity."

"I hear sex works remarkably well for that." Dorian chose the moment a revered Sister walked past to make that statement. Cullen was sure he got a kick out of being somewhat of a pariah in the Keep, for more reasons than one.

"What?!"

"It's true – for what it's worth I don't think many ex-Templars are getting any either," Dorian chuckles, his attention now fully diverted from the game board before them. "Now tell me, Commander. How can I assist you with your, ah, diplomatic issue?"

"I don't even want to know how you know, whatever it is you know," Cullen sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. "I was actually hoping you might help me select something from the wine cellar."

"That's it? you want wine recommendations?"

"Yes."

"Hm… Alright Commander, I'll bite. Only if you promise to bite back."

"I… I don't even know what that means."

As dusk approached, he put the final touches to the letter with a flourish of ink. Now he just had to wait.

-0-

She received the note on her way into Josephine's chambers for a review of current outstanding diplomatic matters. She expected the meeting would take a while, given they needed to go over the approach they intended to take with Empress Celine. The sun was already sinking behind the Frostbacks – she wondered when she would manage to eat today.

 _Inquisitor,_

 _I have some concerns about your impending expedition to the Emerald Graves I wish to discuss with you in more detail, if you have time this evening. I will be in my tower working on reports in the meantime. It is rather timely, given you are scheduled to move out in the morning._

 _-Cullen_

She reads the note twice, before tossing into the fireplace, as she always did with messages. It paid to be overcautious as opposed to complacent.

"Anything of concern, Bella?" Josie frowns, quill at the ready, sifting through a stack of papers with her free hand.

The inquisitor sighs, throwing herself into an armchair opposite the Antivan. "Cullen wishes to discuss operations prior to tomorrow. He will have to wait until this meeting has concluded."

"Strange, is it not, that he didn't have such concerns at this morning's council?"

"Hm. Perhaps. He would not say so if it were not important, would he not? Anyway, let's begin."

-0-

An hour after the message was sent, he thinks it can't hurt to try some wine while he waits.

Two hours later, the bottle is almost empty. He has convinced himself that any hope of salvaging whatever it was that had been before, was gone. Douses embers no longer catch.

His withdrawal headache abating just enough to bring a sense of calm to his thoughts, to complement the numbing disappointment, he rests his head upon the cool surface of his desk. After a few moments, he drifts into sleep, his candle near burned down to the nub.

-0-


	4. Migraines

**Chapter 4**

-0-

The moon is high by the time she emerges onto the battlements. She feels irritable, largely due to her hunger and in part as a reaction to hours of talk of Orlesian politics. Trudging towards Cullen's tower, as it was known in her mind, she feels a sense of dread growing within her. Ever since he had kissed her, then tried to apologise and make it disappear, she had grown distant from him.

If Cullen wasn't able to see past her status, to forgive himself, or overcome whatever other barrier he felt was between them, then maybe it was for the best that they didn't let their attraction go any further. She didn't have the energy to try to change the mind of Thedas, _and_ Commander Cullen. Maker knows, he was just as stubborn as all of the nations combined.

Approaching the foot of the stairs before his tower, she glanced upward. The wooden door is open, just a crack, and it is dark within. Strange. Wasn't he expecting her?

She ascends the stone steps, reaching the door silently. She inches her fingers into the gap and prises the door open, thankful that the recently oiled hinges do not creak as she parts it wide enough to pass through.

As her eyes adjust to the dim moonlight filtering in through the windows, she makes out the Commander's form, slumped over his desk, shoulders rising and falling in the rhythm of sleep. His candle having burned down to a smoking wick accounts for the uncharacteristic dark.

Her expression softens.

Treading gently toward his desk, adjusting to the gloom, she notes several out of place objects upon it's cleared surface: A dusty, dark bottle; two cups; two plates, still stacked up, unused; and a parcel tied with sackcloth.

Sighing softly, she perches on the edge of the desk beside him, examining the exposed portion of his face not covered by his folded arms. He'd forgone his usual armour; mantle, pauldrons and gauntlets set aside in the corner of his office. She noted the strong form and musculature of his forearms, revealed by rolled up sleeves, the intriguing hills of his knuckles and the valleys between, dusted with scars.

Her fingers knit their way into his hair, gently stroking it back from him temples. Surprisingly, he does not wake, instead exhaling deeply, as if sighing in disappointment.

In spite of her recent frustrations with Cullen, she could never question his dedication to their cause. She had often found him working well into the night, pouring over reports in the light of a single candle, or holding meetings with his scouts and generals on tactics, supply roads and operations to clear areas of hostiles., well outside of what would be considered normal working hours.

She had once remarked that he worked too hard and should try and get some sleep. Ah yes, it had been after Haven. Bella had rather enjoyed poking the Commander's bubble back at their makeshift camp, though it had been for sport more than anything. He had the most delightful blush that came unbidden, creeping up his neck as she asked him probing questions into Templar life.

Yet after Haven, there had been something between them, palpable and tense. They had both let their walls down then, only for a moment, yet it was enough. Their eyes had met, and an understanding was reached. There was something there. Neither of them understood it, and both feared the implications, yet it was comforting to know, when dark nights settled in, and the terrors of what they would face loomed over them, that someone, somewhere, might just be waiting to offer sanctuary.

The Commander's brow twitches in the wake of her stroking thumb. "Cullen?"

"Hnn, go away. Is'late." He grumbles, burying his face in his arms. She supresses a bubble of laughter, leaning in a little closer, her fingertips gently massaging his scalp. The frown dissipates in the wake of her touch.

"I apologise profusely for my lateness, Commander. You sent a message for me?"

"What?!" He bolts upright, jerking into wakefulness with comical speed. "Inquisitor?! How long have you been there? Is something wrong?!" He is half out of his chair, reaching for his sword before she halts him, hands braced on his shoulders. Beneath her fingers and a thin layer of cotton, she can feel firm, twitching musculature, coiled and ready to battle. She is suddenly curious.

"Cullen, nothing's on fire! I came because you sent me a message. I've only just managed to escape Josie's office, and I'm starving."

"O-oh…" He falls back heavily into his chair, dragging a roughened palm over his face, the scratch of his stubble audible. His palpable weariness leaves her feeling sorry for waking him. "I must have… fallen asleep. Did the candle burn out? Give me a moment…"

As a new candle sputters to life, the wick catching from the smouldering embers of the brazier, the dark shadows beneath his eyes are thrown into stark relief. "I should leave you to rest- you look exhausted."

"No, no, _I_ invited you for a meeting… I took the liberty of securing some things from the kitchen, suspecting you mightn't have eaten. Please – help yourself."

She drags a stool across to his desk, gratefully teasing open the knot of the sackcloth parcel. She discovers the parcel contains bread, cheese, a couple of peaches, and more auspiciously, her favoured sweet treat from the kitchens (when the cook could be convinced), honey nut pastries.

Curious, she picks up the dusty near-empty wine bottle. A sniff tells her that the wine was specifically selected to complement the sweetness of the pastries. A rather impressive vintage out of North Orlais. A gentle shake reveals the contents mostly depleted. Cullen must have gotten tired of waiting.

She swallows down a wave of hot guilt.

Had he wanted to make amends, and she had unwittingly denied him the opportunity? She reckoned she knew him well enough to surmise how long he must have agonised over this. A glance in his direction confirms he is doing his best to avoid her gaze, focussing all his attention on reaching for bread to distribute some onto her plate.

She doesn't want to be the one to break the fragile silence, instead allowing him to share out the morsels from the kitchen before they eat together in the companionable quiet.

"You remembered my favourite pastries," She intoned softly, smiling to express her gratitude. The sweetness floods her mouth, memories of loitering in the kitchens at her home in Ostwick returning with painful clarity.

"You told me once they reminded you of home. I… after our conversation in your quarters, I wasn't sure if that was a good thing?"

" _Some_ memories are good. The cook, Marian, she… she and I were close."

The cook who worked at her familial holdings had been the closest thing to a doting mother figure, growing up. Marian would ensure she was fed, would tease out her braids in the evenings, and would tell her stories; tales of warriors, dragons, witches… stories which burst into life before the kitchen hearth, her nightshirt tugged over bruised and nobbled knees.

"I've had letters from my sister," Cullen offers, as if he knows how painful it is for her to dwell on her past. Bella is grateful for him, then; She knows how rare it is for him to open up. His sister, Mia, was a figure known to her already, through tales he had regaled to her over the chessboard.

Bella treasured those rare moments between them, saddened that they seemed so distant, now. She regrets everything since that she might have said to damage the fragile attraction they harboured.

"Is she well? You said you had not written for years." Bella leans closer, biting into the flesh of a peach.

"She _is_ well. Her response to my letter was sent quicker than I had anticipated, though she was just as angry as I had feared," He admits with a chuckle. "My sister is not a subtle woman. The first few pages of the letter were littered with curses, calling me all of the names under the sun. There were even holes in the paper where she had torn through with her quill. She has written since – I think she has started to forgive me for my disappearing act. I didn't want to be close to anyone after… after Kirkwall."

"I can understand that, though I'm glad you are on speaking terms once more. These are difficult times for Thedas. It's good that you have reconnected with those who love you."

"I've missed out on so much – Mia has a daughter, Mabel, and my brother… well nothing's changed there. His is still his usual self – breaking hearts from coast to coast."

"Now this I have to see – A Rutherford without the trademark Templar restraint," Bella chuckled, peach juice leaking into her palm.

"I don't think I could introduce you to him – many a good woman has given in to his charms." Cullen rolls his eyes. She notices the commander's posture is much more relaxed, form draped lazily in his chair, legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles.

She leans in teasingly, plucking at the loose lacing of his shirt. "But is he as handsome as you are?"

He flushes delightfully, tawny irises trained on his desk. "Um, would you like some wine? I think there should be enough for you to have a small goblet full – I can send for more if you-"

She laughs, in that musical manner she had that warmed the coldest of rooms. The exhaustion of the day is calling to Ysabel, bidding her to her bed, though she doesn't want this to end, to tear the fragile stitches that were mending, pulling their torn pieces closer together.

"Cullen… I must ask, before the night escapes us; The intelligence report, you called me here to discuss – should we cover it quickly? Only I must retire to bed soon, if I am to rise at dawn for the Emerald Graves." At his silence, she probes again, ducking her head so he cannot avoid meeting her gaze. "Cullen….?"

"Ah… there was no report…" He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to… make amends for what I said outside the Tavern and… _Maker's breath_. This was a stupid idea… I'm not very good at this am I?"

She is grinning at him, apparently victorious, grey eyes flashing in the candlelight. At least she wasn't angry, he tries to console his wounded pride. Then, her expression humbles a little, eyes dropping to consider her folded hands.

"I ah… In fact it is I who owes _you_ the apology, Cullen. I was not thinking clearly, and I should have…" She breathes in deeply. "I should have considered how you might feel about us, what you might want. I know you take your role here very seriously, and for that I am eternally grateful. But… I just want to understand what barrier you see between us. If I understand better, I can… I could try to move on."

He wants the floor to swallow him up, to spare him from this agony of exposure. He wants to retreat, preferably somewhere quiet, to consider everything.

"You're… I'm… I'm a commoner. I have no land or titles." He already knows how futile his excuse sounds. He wants her to break him down. He wants her to give him permission to take her beneath her station.

"You know that I wish for anything other than noble blood. I wish it did not haunt me so. If you can see past that… if you could…"

He reaches out tentatively for her hand, disturbing its ministrations worrying a loose thread in her leggings. "Bella. I want this. I'm an idiot, a blustering fool, but I… I want this."

"Well, that's a start." Her eyes sparkle as their fingers intertwine. _Maker,_ she was so beautiful.

"I…I am not proud of the man I have become." Is all he can say, aghast that she could even feel anything for him, unable to believe anything between them could be possible.

"For what it's worth, I quite like the man in front of me," She mumbles, leaning a little closer.

She almost chokes with laughter as Cullen takes an appraising look around him, as if perhaps without him noticing there was another man shadowing his footsteps. As though she couldn't possibly mean him.

"He might be block headedly stubborn, profoundly irritable, and damned foolish to boot, but… he is kind, formidable and fierce in battle, a wise and steady advisor and… beautiful."

That sharp line appears between his brows, that she has so longed to smooth with her thumb. She succumbs to the urge, breaching the distance between them and soothing away the mar to his features. In the humble glow of the candle, his eyes seem to burn, as if fire smouldered within him.

"I understand your fears, Cullen. But life would be nothing if we didn't take risks, if we didn't try to make things better. Think about it. I'm not going to force you to do something or be something if you're not ready for it. Just know that I will be waiting for you, once you've figured it out." Then, out of nowhere, she yawns, catching it in her palm with an expression of apologetic shock.

He resists the urge to laugh. "I should… we should get some sleep."

"Agreed. I'd love to stay, but I need to prepare some things for tomorrow." She nods, and he is relieved that he can take some time from her overwhelming presence to consider everything, and where he stands. What he wants… _She'd love to stay,_ his mind helpfully supplies, though he ignores the voice. Impulse was not the right tool to employ in this venture, he had already learned.

"Alright, Inquisitor. Good hunting."

"Goodnight, _Commander_ ; and thank you." She smiles warmly, leaning over to press a gentle kiss his temple, enveloping him with her musky, floral scent. "I'll see you when I return."

-0-

When the seventh day dawned, he thought he could not tolerate it any longer.

Night terrors had descended upon Cullen since her departure for the Emerald Graves with vengeance, lurking in the shadows until sleep took him. They had woken him more than once during the hours of darkness each night hence, a barely choked-out cry on his lips, body slick with cold sweat.

Her expedition was planned to be gone for two weeks or so. Each day seemed as if she was growing further and further away from him, like their conversation in his office had not taken place. The scent of her had washed over him as she leaned in to kiss his temple, and it had taken all of his restraint to resist pulling her into his lap and giving her the kiss he'd wanted to give her for months.

His withdrawal headache bloomed with raging punctuality at breakfast whilst the shakes settled in at late morning, just in time for a meeting with the other advisors in the war room. His appearance must have belied his attempt at composure, for the Ambassador refrained from teasing him in favour of enquiring after his health. Cassandra offered him a knowing grimace as consolation.

He had chosen this. He must bear it. Though, not just for himself.

He excused himself from the room, marching quickly to the nearest outdoor space, the gardens, and promptly vomited into a flowerbed. Thanking the Maker the gardens were empty, he leaned against the stone walls, knees trembling, eyes closed, enjoying the sensation of the sun on his face. His now fully-fledged migraine pounded behind his eyes whilst his stomach roiled, threatening to expel itself again though he knew it was empty.

"Should I run the troops through their paces today, Commander?"

Cassandra. Not the softest human he'd ever met, though that was precisely why he had approached her. She wouldn't allow emotion to cloud her judgement.

"Please." He didn't have strength to look at her, instead remaining rooted to the wall behind him.

"You're doing well, Cullen. Slowly, but surely, you're getting there. I'm proud of you."

"Hm." It was a laugh. Sort of. "Thanks, Cassandra."

"You should probably try and sleep it off. Once the sweating has passed a bath should bring some relief."

"Been reading have we?" He sighed, clenching then unclenching his fingers around the hilt of his sword, something else to focus on other that the nausea that threatened to overcome him again.

"No, actually. Ysabel came to find me before she left for the Graves, to tell me what to look out for. It seems she had been reading a lot about this- She is worried about you." He can hear Cassandra fidgeting at his side. She doesn't fidget. "You'd better get yourself cleaned up and rested. I promised I'd help out, but I'm not entirely comfortable being your nursemaid. Off with you, before you ruin the rest of the garden."

His chuckle sounds over the pounding in his eardrums.

-0-

A troupe of travelling musicians arrived into the keep, and within the hour they were working up a storm in the tavern. Far from feeling put out, Maryden was delighted to encounter the kin of her art, who brought with them new techniques, instruments, styles, and most importantly, new songs to sing.

A young singer named Anais took up her instrument, her voice quivering and delicate where Maryden's was smooth. She sang songs of loss and songs of hope, ballads for shepherds and Kings alike. Warriors supped deeply from tankards, hiding the flinch of emotion that her voice and the stories that it wove rendered.

Next, a full complement of musicians bearing strange instruments with strings, plucked by fingers or stroked by a bow, began their energetic songs, spurring many a tavern dweller to their feet, others content to tap their feet along to the beat of a pigskin drum.

Dorian, not surprisingly to Cullen, was an excellent dancer; of noble birth, well versed in the etiquette required. He was currently expertly twirling a very giddy-looking Josephine around the impromptu dancefloor. He had to admit, they made an attractive pair.

From his table, Cullen scowls into his near-empty tankard.

"Not in the mood for dancing, Curly?" Varric takes a stool at his vacant table at the Commander's affirmative nod, appraising the commander's laid-back posture, legs stretched out before him, paired with his anything but relaxed expression.

"Templars don't dance," He grumbles, accepting an offered refill from the dwarf gratefully.

Iron Bull's laughter booms out- apparently the Ambassador and Dorian had performed a rather risky dance move that hadn't quite gone to plan – she was laughing into the mage's shoulder, whilst a bemused yet affectionate Dorian teased her for standing on his toes.

Varric leans in, a smirk quirking the corners of his mouth. "Last I checked, you weren't a templar anymore."

"Hn." The smirk doesn't vanish from the dwarf's face, much to Cullen's chagrin.

"You gotta admit it, this beat _is_ infectious – quite a bawdy song from Orzammar, I hear." The Dwarf's foot taps along to the beat for a little while, before he leans in to address his furtive drinking companion. "So… what's eating you, Curly? You still kicking that Lyrium?" Varric intones softly, loud enough that Cullen could hear over the din.

He didn't know what made him start talking – maybe it was this second pint. Maybe it was the desperation he felt at being seemingly unable to function normally, and what that might mean for him. For _her_. Whatever it was, it hit him with full force.

He dropped his face into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets to alleviate the pressure building up there, threatening to become a fully-fledged migraine.

"Maker's Breath," He sighed, earning him a chuckle from Varric. "I'm falling for her. Hard."

The dwarf chuckled into his tankard, taking a deep drink before responding. "Bella? So that's what this is about? You're in love! What's the big deal- I thought she had taken quite the shine to you?"

"I'm a damned mess, Tethras – you wouldn't believe it. I can't let my damn walls fall enough to let anyone into my life, let alone romantically and I… Maker, the Lyrium calls to me, _so_ loudly. Every damn day is hell, but then there's the nightmares, Varric... I manage to get through the days, somehow, but the _nights_..." He grinds the heels of his hands into his brows, trying not to dwell on the colours at the edge of his vision that the pressure created, too-reminiscent of the blood aura that stains the periphery of his nightmares.

"Not sleeping so good, Curly?" Varric intones softly. From behind the shelter of his palms, Cullen can hear the dwarf has drawn in closer, listening. He is grateful, for once, to have someone to talk with about this.

"I thought I had known suffering before. What happened at the circle in Ferelden… once was enough, yet I revisit that damnable place more times that I can recall. But recently in my nightmares I..… I see Ysabel. It's like Haven, where I have to let her go and face a danger I know will break her and I can't do anything to save her – I can't lend my sword, there are no soldiers I can provide. I don't find her, near-death in the snow this time. She comes back, but she is bloody and broken and- and dead... and I can't do a damn thing about it."

"You were the one to find her, after Haven weren't you? I remember you returning to the camp with her in your arms, near frozen to death. That must have been… hard."

"The worst damn thing is, my nightmares are fucking half-right." He drops his hands from his face to pound his fists into the table. Varric's brows are high, both impressed and awed that the straight-laced commander had used such a curse word. "I'm going to have to let her go at some point in the future; sending her to face Corypheus, his arch-dragon and maker knows what else before that and I… I won't be able to save her."

"Well, shit." Varric supplies helpfully, draining his tankard. "I don't really know what to tell you Curly. Except, maybe I could offer you another drink? I mean, Ah, _have_ you tried drinking yourself into a dreamless stupor?"

"Well no, but-" The dwarf raises a palm, eyes closed, signifying the end of the discussion as he scurried off to buy another round, saluting an approaching Dorian as he passed.

The moustachioed mage slid into a vacant seat, clapping Cullen on the shoulder in greeting. "Enjoying yourself, Commander? You look terrible – I take it you didn't try my recommended cure for Lyrium withdrawals, did you?"

"Ah… you mean…" He flushes at the recollection of their last discussion in the gardens, over the chessboard. "I haven't..."

"You don't need to tell me twice. You don't carry yourself like a man who gets lucky frequently."

Cullen grits his teeth, desperate to move the conversation in another direction. "So how come you aren't out on the trail with the Inquisitor? I thought you were her to-go mage?" He notes Dorian tries to not look offended.

"Well, she suggested that perhaps Solas may wish to join her, given it _is_ Elf territory. And he is, as I'm sure you haven't failed to notice, an elf." He pointedly looks towards the dancefloor, where an inebriated Sera was being swung around carelessly by a rather engrossed Krem. "Given our lovely Sera, in spite of her Elfy-ness, despises Solas and everything he stands for, she remained here also. Cole tagged along – he and Solas will have a lot to discuss on the road I'm sure. Our dear Bella will return from her trip _longing_ for the usual titivating chat we normally indulge in in camp, I'm sure, after two weeks with those two oddballs."

The blond elf in question was currently being lifted to sit on Blackwall's broad shoulders, trying to reach Krem's drinking horn, tossed up into the air by a mischievous Charger. It had landed on the antler chandelier that hung in the tavern, tantalisingly out of reach.

"what sort of u _sual_ chat?"

Dorian's eyes flashed mischievously, speaking just as Varric returns to the table, laden with two now-full tankards and a goblet of wine for him. "Oh, excellent Varric, thank you - a good game of Kiss, Marry and Kill."

"What? Is that not a children's game?" Cullen scoffs, swallowing down some more beer. It really did seem to take the edge off his migraine, actually.

"Not the way we play it, right Sparkles?" Varric winks in Dorian's direction. "How about we play a few hands of cards with Curly here, before getting down to a few rounds? I suspect we might have some fun with him after he's got a few more tankards down his throat."

"That, is a capital idea, Varric – but what on earth is Sera _doing_?"

She was standing on Blackwall's shoulders now, his large hands gripping her ankles, victorious fingers clutching at the horn, steadying her swaying body by clinging to the antlers. At that moment, Bull tackled Blackwall from underneath the elf, who was left dangling from the chandelier, howling with laughter, her feet kicking furiously for purchase that did not come. The drinking horn falls to the floor and rolls away, forgotten.

Cullen chuckles as Blackwall regains his footing, sidestepping to stop beneath the chandelier at the precise moment Sera loses grip. She lands in his arms with a whoop of surprise and to tumultuous applause.

-0-

He'd lost a few hands of wicked grace, sacrificing some of his armour, though the loss was not noted, his shoulders lighter for the lack of it. He'd had a couple more pints – wait, or had it been three? – and he felt lighter than he had in weeks.

"So how about it Commander? Kiss, Marry, Kill; Cassandra, Vivienne, Josephine."

"That's easy. Wait- No, it's not! I suppose I'd marry the lovely Josie, kiss Cassandra- I forbid you to tell her that- and kill Vivienne. The woman's a damn Zealot. Reminds me too much of Meredith, and she was supposedly a Templar."

Varric nods in agreement with Cullen's choices. "Cassandra and I don't have the best history, but I'd definitely agree with you on that… What about you Dorian – Bella, Sera, Lelianna."

"Leliana is rather too dangerous – she has to go, though I envy the person who has to attempt the deed. Can I not kiss _and_ marry our dear Bella, and just leave Sera to her own devices? Sera and I… we couldn't be further apart! Bella's the whole package, after all."

"It almost sounds like you love her." Cullen's brows creased, trying to understand.

"Oh I do," He says, nudging an elbow into the Commander's ribs. "I love her profoundly- She is my dearest friend. Her only fault being she was born a woman, I guess."

"Well let's be grateful that she is, indeed, a woman. Otherwise…" Wait, what was he _saying_?

"-otherwise you'd obviously lose out to my excessive charm and good looks. Now if you'll excuse me, I believe it's my round."

The game continued, growing sillier by the moment, though Cullen wasn't about to object. He felt he was making good progress, socialising with Bella's circle. A _headache_ , what's a headache?

"What do you mean you'd kill _me_?" Varric protests, gesturing madly at Dorian. Cullen snickered from his side of the table, drawing a wearied look from his companions.

"No offence – it's the height. You're easy on the eye, but I much prefer someone who can ah… reach. Now our commander here, I'd _definitely_ -"

"Noooo, no no." He waves his arms in protest. "Not listening."

"Come on, Commander. I am willing to bet you'll make some waves in Orlais. Rumour has it they like it rough from time to time. They must bore of all the posturing."

"I'm not _rough_!" He protests.

"Such a shame." Dorian's chin rested thoughtfully in his palm. "Now tell me, for I must know. Why on earth have you not made a move on dear Bella yet? It's damned obvious to me that she wants you. And you want her. What's stopping you just going off into a darkened room and doing what comes naturally?"

Cullen sighs, shoulders sagging a little with defeat. "I… I don't…What if… Is it not kinder to… to just end it here? What if one of us doesn't make it through all of this mess?" As he says it, he realises he is trying to protect himself from what he felt was an inevitability. Bella, the ultimate sacrifice for the fate of Thedas.

" _It is better to have loved and lost that to never have loved at all._ Do you not read, Commander, really!?" Dorian chuckles. "I should lend you some books. You never know, they may help pass the time while you're waiting for her to return from expeditions. Ahem, but seeing as you were asking for _my_ opinion on the matter, I wholeheartedly recommend not looking before you leap, with Ysabel. I do not know what the future holds as much as you do, but… To miss out on _her_? Would you want to risk that?"

Cullen wanted to protest – the room was starting to blur around the edges a little bit, though it was nice, for once, to feel numb. In a good way. Cassandra wouldn't approve, likely, though he thought that Bella might have, always one to encourage him to take time for himself when he could.

He found himself thinking of the Hero of Ferelden, when she had been just a mage in the Tower at Ferelden. He had taken a risk then, Maker, more than one. And what happened to her? Oh yes, she went to face the Arch Demon and sacrificed herself in the process. So much for taking risks.

"I… I'm not very good at taking risks for myself, these days." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation.

"Once bitten twice shy?" Varric snorts, slumped in his seat. "You're a walking cliché Commander. But fascinating… I might write a book with a character in it like you; hesitant, blushes at the mere whiff of flirting, haunted by a previous love…"

"- don't forget the part where he is knee-weakening handsome, and totally and blissfully unaware. I like that in a man." Dorian sighed wistfully.

"Because it's the exact opposite of you?" Cullen interjects, whilst Varric howls with laughter across the table, fist pounding and sending forgotten silvers flying to the floorboards.

"Sassy Commander Cullen, _where_ have you been?"

"I'm going to call it a night, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure." Cullen excuses himself, waving away the protestations of his companions. He needed to get some sleep, lest he be unable to function tomorrow. He doubted Cassandra would be as sympathetic for a repeat of today's symptoms, but self-induced.

The next morning, his body nailed to his mattress, a fog filling his skull, he wonders if the hangover would be worth it. Only then does it occur to him that he had experienced a blissful, nightmare-free slumber. He reminds himself of this fact as he struggled through shaving, pressed on with his morning briefings, answered a number of messages and sent them to be distributed by raven, and supervised the recruits' training drills.

He smiles to himself as he watches the sun go down on the ramparts that night. Maybe, just maybe, there _was_ an end in sight; where he could see all that he stood to gain, rather than all that he stood to lose.

-0-


End file.
